


i swallow the sound and it swallows me whole

by Likerealpeopledo



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aphasia, Broken Voice, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Recovery, Speech Disorders, Tear-stained, Whump, Whumptober 2019, non-graphic medical depiction, stay with me, stroke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo
Summary: Patrick falls ill while he’s away from home and this is what happens...





	1. i swallow the sound and it swallows me whole

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Whumptober Fest Prompts on Tumblr.
> 
> Again, everything will work out in the end.

Patrick doesn’t normally mind participating in these kinds of icebreaker activities - they’re opportunities to network, he understands why it’s important to network - but he’s had a headache all morning. A persistent thing, just behind his eyes, and the recommended dosage of pain reliever has done nothing to abate it. 

Now Julia, his seminar-seat partner-in-crime for most of the day, is holding her half-marked bingo card and watching Patrick with kind, expectant eyes, having just asked if she can use his and David’s wedding anniversary to mark off one of her unfilled squares. 

He’s been married to David for almost five years now; it’s summer, it’s always summer, and they’ll be celebrating their next anniversary—their fifth—on David’s birthday. He remembers how people at the wedding had joked that Patrick had selected that date so he’d only have to remember one special day—_typical husband, _everyone had said with a fond roll of their eyes, but Patrick knew better. He didn’t feel the need to explain to anyone that he and David had chosen it because that day meant so much; that they wanted all of their firsts—their first date, their first kiss, their first kiss as husbands, their wedding anniversary—to line up so succinctly and meticulously that nothing could ever separate them. 

And he wants to tell Julia, who is still smiling, though it’s going a little wooden because Patrick hasn’t been able to find the words. They’re right...there. But when his brain goes to seize one of the elusive things, it's as though the word just sort of shivers, then shimmers, and disappears. 

Something is wrong.

Patrick gives a nervous laugh, hoping to shake something loose, but nothing quite reaches his tongue. Emitting a frustrated hum, he lowers his head and tries not to panic. His hands shake and sweat where he’s clutching his bingo card. _It’s okay, you’re okay, just go splash some water on your face._ _You just need to get some sleep. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep well without David here and this headache isn’t helping. _He makes a face that he hopes is more eloquent, something that communicates a message in the vein of _this is weird_ _and embarrassing, isn’t it_, _let’s just pretend it’s not happening and we’ll all laugh about this later._

A man in a suit approaches Julia to ask about favorite vacation spots, but Julia politely waves him off. “Patrick?” She says again, pitching her voice a little higher. Patrick realizes, with no small amount of alarm, that Suit Man is wearing a name tag that Patrick can’t actually _ read_. It’s not illegible, it’s just...scrambled.

Patrick can’t tell what his eyes are doing, but he thinks they’re probably wide now, and maybe a little teary. He waves his hand, miming to Julia that she should just move on, ask someone else, and finally, finally, he squeezes out, “Um...uh...R—,” and then he mumbles, “I’m not feeling well.”

Julia swallows, hands her Bingo Card to Suit Man, and grabs Patrick’s elbow. Her hand is small, but strong, and her manner is purposeful, but urgent. Like this is an emergency. Julia’s steering Patrick toward the door before he can make any gestures elaborate enough that she’ll actually hear what he isn’t currently able to say.

Julia parks Patrick authoritatively on a bench near the hotel’s atrium. Suit Man, inexplicably has followed. “What can I do?” He asks. 

“Can I have your phone, please?” Julia holds her hand out, never once allowing her gaze to shift from Patrick. She accepts the Suit Man’s phone and starts to...Patrick wracks his brain for the word and comes up with ‘pull’... but, no, that’s not…

“Hi, I’m attending a conference at the Westin and I think we need an ambulance.”

_ No, _ he tries to push out, to no avail. He can feel his brow furrowing and his mouth squeezing into a tight line. “Don’t need...we can get a cab.” Patrick manages to grit out, exhaling in relief that he’s able to produce that much. _ See, _ he tells himself, _ it’s just a weird panic attack. But getting it checked out can’t hurt. _

Julia glances over at Suit Man, who shrugs, then back at Patrick, who she’s still eyeing as if he’s a horse that might spook. “Patrick, can you call your husband?” Her tone indicates that she has already assumed he’s currently incapable of doing so, and Patrick surmises that she’s probably right, so he hands over his own cell phone reluctantly. “What’s your code?”

_7823\. 3782. FUCK._ Patrick shrugs helplessly and shuts his eyes, swallowing against a clog of tears in his throat. This is like one of the nightmares he used to have, trying to dial a phone number but never being able to select the right buttons, hanging up before the call goes through. Sensing his apprehension, Julia nods and tucks Patrick’s phone into her pocket. 

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” The kindness in her voice is overwhelming and he’s mortified to find that he’s blinking back the tears he tried to swallow. 

“I have to go get my purse, okay? Please,” she pauses and pats Patrick’s slumped shoulder, then glances over at Suit Man and makes a decision. “Can you please stay here with him? I’ll be right back.”

Suit Man agrees, and Patrick listens as the clicking sound of Julia’s high heels against the tiled floor recedes as she walks away. He attempts to give Suit Man an awkward half-smile that, based on his worried expression, probably looks more like a grimace. Propping his elbows on his knees, Patrick drops his head into his hands. 

_ What the fuck is happening to me. _


	2. slipping underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump tag: broken voice.
> 
> Julia and Suit Man (Eric) take Patrick to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you experience triggers related to medical topics involving the brain, please skip this chapter.
> 
> It is from an outsider POV.

When Julia Blevins chose a seat in the third row next to the unassuming guy in the blue button-up at the Entrepreneurship Symposium, she never would have predicted the events that followed.

Her seat partner, a compact guy with kind eyes and a broad, handsome face, had leaned over halfway through the keynote speaker’s address and whispered, breath warm against her ear, “How many times is this guy going to _ say in terms of the situation_?” and then tilted his notebook toward her, revealing twenty-three neatly marked tallies in the upper right-hand corner. His name tag said _ Patrick Brewer, Rose Apothecary, _ and when Patrick came closest to their bet of 47, she’d offered him a handful of gummy bears as a reward. He’d gladly accepted them, and then she’d watched in growing amusement as Patrick carefully selected all of the green bears for priority consumption. They’d chatted at the breaks and compared notes about their businesses and sure, Patrick had seemed tired at times but he hadn’t seemed _ sick. _

Now Julia’s shoulder to broad-shoulder with Patrick in the back of a cab, and he’s taking very shallow breaths, body trembling minutely. Instinctively, she reaches over and takes his hand, pulling it into her lap. She gives it a squeeze and hopes that it is somehow comforting; it comforts her, anyway, but Patrick doesn’t squeeze back. There’s a brief second when Julia worries that she’s somehow crossed a line with this married man that she just met a few hours ago - by taking his hand - until she realizes that if he doesn’t respond, it’s probably because he_ can’t_. She briefly studies the simple gold band on his ring finger, the way his thick veins stand out against his pale skin, and finds herself desperately hoping that holding his hand will be enough. It certainly doesn’t seem like enough.

For his part, Patrick does not seem all that comforted. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes tipped with tears, and he looks _terrified_. The fact that traffic is an abysmal mess isn’t making this any easier. Eric, the other man from the conference, is crammed into the backseat with them, on Patrick’s right. Julia isn’t sure why he’s even making this sojourn, other than in he must have thought it would be awkward or impolite to bow out before some kind of resolution. The problem is: Julia has no idea what or when the resolution will be. 

They’d taken a cab after Patrick had refused the ambulance and they’d realized the hospital was less than a mile from the hotel. Stuck at yet another downtown Ottawa red light, Google Maps indicates that they’re now 0.5 miles away from the hospital, but it feels more like fifty. Like they’re doing this on foot. “You know, it’s probably just a migraine,” Eric theorizes unhelpfully, and Julia has to quash the rising urge to harm him bodily. Eric, apparently, is a nervous rambler, and he cannot seem to leave a quiet space unfilled.

Julia decides to concentrate on Patrick again instead, on smoothing a hand down the sleeve of his oxford shirt, studying the bluntness of his short fingernails and the preciseness of the creases in his dark jeans. He hasn’t said a word since they’d gotten in the cab, hasn’t tried. He picks up his hand from her lap, shakes it as if he’s attempting to wake a sleeping limb. “Is it numb?” 

Patrick gives a slight nod. She’s almost surprised when Patrick’s other hand covers hers where she’s resting it on the bend of his elbow. His hand is clammy, but she doesn’t dare move. 

The traffic finally eases, the accident that had been blocking the relatively straight shot has been cleared, and they’re pulling up in the Emergency bay when Patrick stutters, “N-n-scared. D-d-d-david,” his voice broken and small.

“We’re going to call David, but we need to take care of you first,” she reassures him. She knows she sounds like she's speaking to broken glass, to something fragile. "I'll find a way to tell him, okay?" She doesn’t know why Patrick doesn’t have a thumbprint ID on his phone, but he doesn’t. From their chats over the course of the day, Julia knows he lives in a small town where they barely even need locks on their doors, so two-factor authentication probably can’t be high on their priority lists. Would have been nice, though, to be able to reach the husband, and deliver Patrick some kind of solace or familiarity in a situation that clearly holds neither.

Eric finally manages to make himself useful as they’re extracting themselves from the backseat as Patrick struggles, first to stand and then to walk. She thinks if Patrick had the strength or the words, that he would resist their assistance, that he’s the kind of guy who would try to “walk it off” if he could, and she doesn’t know why her heart’s in her throat thinking about how weak he’s become so quickly. But as things stand, Patrick reluctantly accepts the arm that Eric places around his lower back, allows Julia to attempt to hold him up on the other side with an arm through his bent elbow. Julia notices that, even now, Patrick is trying to carry his own weight. “You’re gonna be okay,” Julia whispers into Patrick’s ear, even though she’s almost sure it’s a lie. 

The Emergency department at the Ottawa Hospital is mercifully quiet. There’s a man with a fairly obvious head wound sitting near the door but, otherwise, there’s nary a soul, except for the three conference attendees. 

When the nurse asks Patrick his name at check-in, his eyes widen in alarm and he shakes his head. Julia steps in, convinces Patrick with a hand on his forearm to hand her his wallet, and she fishes out his driver’s license to hand to the nurse. “His name is Patrick Brewer,” Julia insists as a faded ticket labelled B13 flutters to the ground. 

“David,” Patrick says plaintively, and Julia feels it as sharply as a sting against her skin.

“We’re gonna get a hold of him, sweetie, I promise.” She bends to retrieve the ticket, tucks it back into its place of reverence, touches the small of Patrick’s back in comfort. Julia is thirty-three years old, single, and childless but she feels almost like she’s a mother to this stranger now; this sweet man who ate all of her green gummy bears and playfully mocked the presenter with a sly smile and mischievously dancing eyes. 

He looks at Julia pleadingly, gestures to the phone on the admission desk. Julia withdraws Patrick’s phone from her pocket, knowing that he’ll be heartbroken if he still can’t get into it. But she also knows that muscle memory can do wonders, that it can be miraculous, and maybe that’s what he’s depending on too. 

The phone trembles in Patrick's hand, lock screen bright and mocking. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts to enter numbers. Julia sees the screen shake its rejection after his first pass, and his light eyebrows furrow in frustration. Julia can tell he’s pressing harder on the second try, using more deliberate, finger-jabbing motions. He shakes his head in disgust when the phone shudders a second denial of access. There are tears building in his eyes again, and Julia lightly brushes her fingers against the ones gripping his phone, gently nods that he should go with the nurse, who’s currently beckoning. Julia doesn’t think she’ll soon forget the look of abject devastation on Patrick’s face as he returns the phone to her, but as she reaches to console him, he turns to follow the nurse.

Patrick disappears behind pneumatic doors and Julia is left forlornly holding his wallet and the cursed phone. “We’ve got to call his husband. I don’t care if we have to crack this stupid thing open,” she says as she turns back to Eric, who is sort of staring off into the middle distance, his utility ebbing.

“Jesus.” Eric says to the floor tile. “He’s like, in his 30s, right?” Julia had seen the birthdate on Patrick’s license, did the math and knew he was only 37. Knows that seems too young for whatever is happening, knows that she doesn’t want to have to tell Patrick’s husband or family, but she’s suddenly determined to do so, because Patrick deserves not to be going through this with only strangers by his side. He needs David. He needs someone who loves him, who cares for him, who makes him feel _ right_.

Julia drops like a brick into one of the blue chairs in the waiting room as Eric wanders away to buy them coffee. She wants to tell him he doesn’t have to stay, but she also doesn’t want to wait here, alone. Eric’s nervous rambling seems to have been left behind in the cab; maybe it’s just a small space affliction. The waiting room is vast and there are too many spaces to hold pockets of fear; Julia would prefer not to face it by herself. 

It isn’t long before a nurse comes and tells the two that Patrick is going to be admitted, and just as the nurse turns to leave, the phone in Julia’s pocket vibrates with a call. “Eureka!” She exclaims, as the caller ID flashes _ David_.

“Hello?”

She’s greeted by a deep male voice that she wishes Patrick could hear right now. “Sorry, I must have the wrong—”

“David?”

“R-Rachel?” 

Julia pauses. “No, this is—Julia. I’m Julia, I met Patrick at the conference, and this is—how fast can you get to Ottawa?”

“What’s happening? What’s going on?” 

“I don’t...I don’t know. I’m sorry. He’s just...he’d been having trouble speaking, and they…” Julia swallows, _ you don’t even know this guy, _then takes a deep breath and forges ahead. “David, I think Patrick might be having a stroke.”


	3. been in love one time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David gets the phone call about Patrick.

On the line, David is silent. A strange woman has just answered Patrick’s phone and told him that his husband, who was currently four hours away at a business conference, might be...no, that isn’t happening.

“No.” He says, too loudly. David finds that he can’t modulate his tone or his register; he also can’t feel his hands or feet. “He’s young. He eats salad. His blood pressure is fine. That’s not--” 

“They’ve just admitted him. He’s getting tests now. They’re going to come and get us when they know something. We don’t have...we wanted to call… what is the unlock code for Patrick’s phone?” The woman, Julia, he reminds himself, asks in a soft voice.

David doesn’t ask about _ us _ because he knows his extroverted husband would have made friends quickly and easily. He’s probably already joined one of their Facebook groups or planned another outing to go for drinks next month. It’s what Patrick does, who he is. “He doesn’t know the code to his phone?” David questions, because if there is one thing that Patrick knows, it’s numbers.

David had been walking to the cafe to pick up a coffee, worried that he hadn’t heard back from Patrick after his series of texts this morning about his miserable sleep and a nagging headache, and so he’d called to check in. But he hadn’t thought to prepare himself for anything… disastrous. He’s talking to a stranger, and it sounds… disastrous. 

Having his own problems with recall at the moment, something in David's brain tells him he’ll be able to concentrate more easily if he’s not on his feet. He sinks bonelessly to the pavement. Without his brain issuing a voluntary command, David finds himself cross-legged outside the cafe, eyes closed against the bright afternoon sun, head buzzing with nothing but fear and worry, trepidation and dread.

“It’s our anniversary. And my birthday, he-” he pauses, swallowing tremulously, past the glass suddenly populating his throat, “he’s an idiot, and a troll. He calls it our birthiversary on the stupid cookie he always gets,” David says, voice wobbling on _ always_. It’s hard to concentrate on remembering phone codes when he’s picturing that self-congratulatory smile on Patrick’s face every time David opens a fucking cookie box. Eventually and agonizingly, David tweezes out the answer to her question from the swamp in his mind, locating it somewhere amongst the tall reeds of unrest. “070220.”

“Okay. Thank you. I promise I’ll update you as soon as I hear something, and I’ll try to take care of him until you get here.” Her voice breaks, and David’s heartbeat accelerates then pounds violently in his ears. _ Take care of him. _

That’s David’s job, and he isn’t doing it.

“He—he’s allergic to penicillin and he broke his arm last year playing baseball and it still aches when it rains sometimes…” David rambles. “Tell them, tell them his blood type is rare. It’s the one—it’s the rarest one. AB negative. His mom used to tell him that it meant he was special.” David sniffs, babbling, sitting on the curb in the middle of town, to a person he’s never met. He’s also crying, which he didn’t realize until just now. “It does not make him special. It actually makes him impossible to deal with sometimes, that idea, so if he, you know, gives you trouble...blame his mother, not me.” 

Fuck. _Marcy_. How is David going to call her and tell her what’s happening. She _ lives _ for Patrick. In a way, David knows that he’s lucky, well, maybe not lucky but life has prepared him for this, a bit. He’s familiar with what it feels like to have his entire world ripped away from him unexpectedly; for Marcy, this is uncharted territory, and he doesn’t want to be the one who does the pulling. He doesn't want any of this, at all.

David scrubs fitfully at his chin as Julia huffs a small joyless laugh over the phone. “He’s been a model patient so far.” 

“It won’t last.” The Itchy Cast Incident had shown otherwise, but David doesn’t have time now to go into the details. Patrick is sick and he needs David there, not here. It’s a four drive and it may as well be forty. “Tell him I love him. That I’m coming and I’ll be there as soon as I can and he just needs—” David knows how he wants to finish that sentence, but if he says it out loud, then it’s all real. None of this is real. It can’t be real. Finally, he manages to say, barely above a whisper, “He needs to wait for me.”

David lumbers to his feet quickly, not stopping to wipe the dirt from his pants, not stopping to check for oncoming cars, not stopping at all. Not a runner at any point in his life, David sprints home, and toward Patrick.


	4. wish that you were here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump tag: Isolation (but not in the strictest sense of the word)

Julia is fairly certain that this is the most surreal Tuesday she’s ever experienced, and it’s barely dinner time.

The hospital staff has delivered Patrick back to a room in the Emergency Department, where Julia and Eric have been able to regroup with him, across from a collection of harried looking medical professionals. Julia glances down at Patrick, who has changed, or more likely been changed, she’s not sure if he’s capable of operating clothing at this point, into a standard blue hospital gown. She already misses the neatly rolled up sleeves and crispness of his oxford; the gown is loose and leaves him looking even more vulnerable. It causes something to squeeze in her chest. It also doesn’t help that the size of the bed he now occupies is daunting; Patrick is almost dwarfed by the sheer enormity of it. It’s not the temporary gurney he’d left in; this one feels more permanent and that is so much scarier, somehow.

To her untrained eye, Patrick still appears relatively healthy. His color is more sallow - these lights are not particularly forgiving - but he truly doesn’t look like a man on the brink of... anything. Except for the fact that he’s hooked up to a hundred different sensors and tubes and wires and is clearly searching the unfamiliar faces desperate to find one that he recognizes, the only one he truly needs.

_ David is on his way, _Julia reminds herself. That information had likely brought Patrick some measure of comfort, if the way his shoulders had sort of melted when Julia had read him David’s latest text message was any indication. 

It was simple and straight-forward— _I <3 u ur gonna be ok_ _I’ll see u soon —_ and it was reassuring to know that there were at least thirty seconds of the last few million that Patrick might have actually felt less alone. She wishes Patrick and David could have spoken to one another, but from the stoic, stone-faced looks turned on them like a firing squad when she made the suggestion, phone conversations don’t seem to be in the offing.

The doctor in charge reminds Julia of a strict high school principal, at least in the set of her jaw and the sternness of her tone, and Julia’s stomach writhes when she realizes that there’s a nurse sort of hovering by Patrick’s IV holding a syringe. Talk of carotid arteries and blood clots and frontal lobes is blurred by emotional exhaustion and as much as Julia wants to collect all the information accurately, no one in scrubs is slowing down to thoroughly explain any of it. Or if they are, it’s going over Julia’s overtaxed head. The main message, though, teased out from all the scary medical jargon is that Patrick is, in fact, in the midst of a stroke. There’s a drug with a long and complicated name that they can use to dissolve the blood clot, which sounds like a simple fix, but likely isn’t.

“There’s a three hour window,” the doctor explains in a tone that suggests that Patrick has somehow purposely made himself late for this; that he’s somehow responsible for the inconvenience of the timing. “It will save you further brain damage.”

Julia tries not to hear _ further_, feels Patrick flinch under the hand she’s resting on his shoulder. 

The doctor explains risks like bleeding, skims over a 7% fatality rate, and Julia does some cursory math in her head that sounds… reasonable, but. “We need your permission to administer it, and we need to know now.”

“D-d-d-David,” Patrick blurts. It’s the first thing she’s heard Patrick say out loud since they’ve been in the building, and there are actual beads of sweat forming on his forehead, right under his hairline, causing Julia to wonder if he’s been working this whole time to form the word and expel it. An hour or two before, he couldn’t say his own name, but his husband’s... She wonders what it will cost him, where the pound of flesh will have to come from to repay this new debt.

The doctor glances to Eric, who startles. “I’m not—I’m not David.”

“David’s his husband. He’s on his way. I-It’s a four hour drive, but he’s definitely coming.” Julia interjects, because someone has to, and clearly Eric is back to being useless again. She hates the way this doctor is looking at Patrick. Like Patrick isn’t a person anymore. Like he isn’t the most vulnerable creature in this room. If Patrick were Julia’s brother or her son or her husband, and even now as her seat mate at a stupid conference, he would deserve more time than what he’s getting, more care. Just _ more._

“David’s not here, Patrick,” the doctor says slowly, as if Patrick does not or cannot understand. “David can’t make this decision.”

Patrick makes a strangled sound, deep in his throat. He has tears welling up in his eyes and his chin is trembling.

“I need a yes or a no.”

Something boils up from Julia’s gut and she wants to _ rage _ on his behalf but there’s still a part of her that just wants to be helpful. He needs to know and he has no voice. “What if he doesn’t get the shot?”

“Then the stroke progresses and after that, we can’t say.” The doctor shrugs, seeming completely unconcerned and unerringly matter of fact. 

“Fuck.” Eric says under his breath. Julia jabs him with her elbow, even though he’s entirely accurate. _ Fuck. _

Everyone in the room is waiting, with gazes trained on the man marooned and isolated in the hospital bed - the man currently shrinking under the weight of being forced to make a life or death decision without the aid of a single person helping him. Eric thrusts his hands deep into his pants pockets and retreats to the furthest corner of the small room. Julia finds herself inhaling sharply and rubbing Patrick’s shoulder again, a tear somehow slipping out and rolling down her cheek. _ You don’t even know him _remains her constant refrain and by this point, maybe that’s not even true anymore. It’s an easy lie to tell herself, to make this feel less like the end of something, and more like the beginning.

Patrick tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling for a few beats, as if the answer may be floating somewhere above him. He produces a deep, agitated sound like that of a wounded animal and then lowers his gaze again, the exhaustion and frustration and terror clearly written on his face. 

Julia looks away - it’s too difficult to bear witness, too difficult to still be in this cold yet stifling room - until there's a sharp tug on her hand. Patrick is staring up at her, eyebrow cocked, helpless and expectant. Like he wants her to somehow assist in making this decision. Julia starts to shake her head until she remembers she still has a voice. “It’s - you have to decide. It could get worse. They said you could get worse.” The doctor had been fairly vague - _we_ _can’t say - _but the implication had been clear.

“I need an answer, Patrick.” The doctor repeats, and from the corner, Eric coughs brokenly into his hand. _ Not you too, Eric, _ Julia thinks. _ One of us needs to keep it together. _

Patrick shifts and trains his eyes on the principal-doctor, and that’s when Julia notices that he’s white-knuckling the edge of the bedsheet. She reaches down to gently tap the back of his hand, feeling a pang of regret because she hasn’t been able to protect him in David’s absence. She bites back the urge to shout _he’s afraid he’s going to die here, alone! Let him at least say goodbye. _

But Julia doesn’t shout, and the doctor’s words hang in the air, a challenge. 

Patrick tries to swallow, but it gets caught in his throat, and as he half-chokes and half-sobs, he nods his affirmation: _ yes. _

Resigned, Patrick settles back against his pillows as the nurse injects his IV line with the medication. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Julia’s fingers graze Patrick’s brow; she can feel when the tense muscles in his forehead finally begin to go slack. “It’s okay, Patrick, you can rest,” she soothes. “David will be here when you wake up.”

It’s not even a full minute before Patrick’s vice-like grip on the blanket loosens, his eyelids flutter closed, and he’s asleep.

God, she hopes she’s right.


	5. you are the silence in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Stevie find their way to Ottawa
> 
> David and Patrick reunite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tear-stained is the whump tag

David is panting and his face tear-stained when he arrives at the motel, clutching his duffel bag and, for reasons still unclear to even himself, Patrick’s guitar.

“Give me your car keys,” David says to Stevie like he’s conducting a robbery. Stevie, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch. 

“Everyone wins when we say _ please_, David.” She dog-ears the page in the paperback she’s reading and finally looks up at David, her eyes widening as she takes in his full countenance for the first time. “Oh God. What happened?” 

David shakes his head and, as he does so, a sob drags its way out of his throat, which propels Stevie to quickly close the distance between them and wrap her arms around him. They don’t really do this very often, and he forgets how tightly Stevie is capable of holding on. He thrusts his phone into Stevie’s concerned face while still wiping the tears from his own with the back of his other hand.

“_We need toilet paper_.” Stevie reads aloud. “Yes, David, that is frightful.”

“Fuck. No, not that.” He rapidly scrolls down his screen and pulls up his text exchange with Julia. “This.” 

Stevie’s face moves quickly through a torrent of emotions, from mirth to confusion to quiet consternation. “David. No. What. What is this? Is this a joke?”

David gives a rueful, hollow laugh. “She, the woman who -” The words get caught, stay caught in his throat. “The woman who took him to the hospital - she called me again, a few minutes ago, said they moved him to Intensive Care and he’s resting. They’ll know soon if they were able to break up the-” he’s never been good at medical things, never been exposed to things like this, doesn’t want to be, “clot, and…” 

“So we need to go. _ Now_.” Stevie moves back behind the counter to grab her messenger bag, and bends to grab her car keys, coming up empty handed. She blanches. “I—I took my car to Bob for servicing yesterday and he found an oil leak. They’re ordering the part and it’ll be here in three days,” she finishes. “Fuck.”

David clutches the bag he’s packed, tries not to fracture and burst into a million points of light like a supernova. His phone buzzes with another text and his heart beats so far out of sync that he thinks he might lose his breath. “I can’t read it. You read it,” David demands brokenly, sort of waving the phone in Stevie’s general airspace.

Stevie gently pries the phone from his hand and sort of pets at his chest while she reads. “It says, _where are you David_,” David can feel his spine straightening, his fight or flight response already pinging, except what is it called when you’re ready to run _ toward _ the fear, “_the Real Housewives reunion is starting_.”

“Alexis.” They say in unison. David rubs tiredly at his jaw. “I already told her that I was working because Patrick was out of town—” His voice breaks. “I don’t understand—”

“You didn’t tell her what was going on?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t tell anyone. I just — I went home and grabbed some things—” David has no idea what he’d actually brought with him; just the foggy memory of randomly shoving objects into his suitcase because he thought they might be important. He hadn’t known what to pack for the end of the world. “And then I came for your car.”

“And you were just going to drive there by yourself?” Stevie questions. 

David hadn’t really considered that. He’d just wanted a car, since Patrick had theirs in Ottawa, and he still had to call Marcy, and he had to tell Alexis, and his parents, that Patrick is _in Intensive Care because he just... _ “He just—he needs me. He’s alone and what if—” David loathes the what if’s right now; all the potential catastrophes are beginning to take shape in his head and they’re crowding out his ability to stay calm or reason. He’s been exerting a lot of effort _ not _ to think, and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Hey, no, you’re on your way.” Stevie says, with more sympathy than David is used to. There are lines around her eyes now, laugh lines that didn’t used to be there when they’d first met, and now she smiles at him, something kind and soft. “We’ll get there.”

The lobby door rattles open and Ray enters, already mid-conversation. “—I am thinking that we’ll use the wire racks for the closet—”

Stevie smacks her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Um, I also forgot that Ray was here setting up some of the rooms with new closet organizers.”

He doesn’t really know where this is going. “Okay….” David draws out. They’re wasting time that he doesn’t have. That he doesn’t know if Patrick has.

“Ray has a car.” Stevie suggests and chooses not to react to David’s full body refusal. “He has a car, David, and you need a car that has an oil pan or isn’t that forty-five year old claptrap your parents keep.” The Roses’ Continental couldn’t make it past Elmdale without spitting smoke anymore, and David hadn’t even considered it as an option. Of course, there were a lot of things he wasn’t considering anymore, and it was easier just to shove them all into some of the darker recesses of his mind. “Ray, can we borrow your car?”

The beauty and the curse of Ray Butani is that he is an act first, ask questions constantly kind of person, but he agrees easily. “Of course. What is it that you need it for? Some sort of Wiccan festival or a linens convention?”

David does not have the energy to explain again, probably won’t in this lifetime, even the words are like a wrecking ball to his chest. Stevie shakes her head and steers Ray back out through the rattling door, and David can hear low murmuring and a few shocked sounds emerging from both parties. After a few seconds, Stevie re-enters the lobby, jingling Ray’s car keys in her hand. “He’s got a full tank of gas and a packed lunch in the cooler. Let’s go.”

* * *

Stevie drives, David worries. 

He’s been clutching his cell phone for the last thirty miles, knowing that he needs to call the Brewers. He’s already texted Alexis - texting was easier, he didn’t have to say any words aloud, and it felt less like tempting fate. She’d been understandably surprised, but she’d promised to mobilize the rest of David’s family and meet him in Ottawa as soon as they could. 

He sees Stevie glancing over at him, hands carefully at ten and two on the wheel. She’s not usually a cautious driver, but today she seems especially careful, and that worries David too. Like he’s fine china that she’s afraid will break. “Still not ready to call?” 

“No.” David stares at the contact list that is the same contact list he’s been contemplating for the past twenty-nine miles. It hasn’t changed. “There’s no way I can do it. I couldn’t say it to Ray, barely to you, and you’re not kind-eyed Marcy Brewer.”

“But they need to know, David. And you need them to know.”

“Get out of here with your logic and reason,” David jokes weakly. He knows that the Brewers have the same long drive ahead of them, just from a different direction, and that they’ll need to start it sooner, rather than later. But. “They’ll be so upset.”

Stevie reaches over and gives his knee an awkward, yet reassuring pat. “You guys need each other right now.”

After a few attempts and a number of false starts, David selects Marcy from his contact list and presses the phone icon. She answers on the second ring, her soft, rich voice cutting a jagged edge directly into David’s heart. David immediately starts to cry; big, wet, ugly sobs that heave up from his chest and leave him hiccupy and out of breath, and as he’d suspected, he can’t even begin to form words.

A hand reaches over from the driver’s seat and gently tugs the phone away from David’s ear. “Hi Mrs. Brewer, it’s Stevie,” she says, and David, still weeping, watches from the passenger seat as the road to Patrick slowly grows shorter.

* * *

It’s past sunset by the time they make it to Ottawa and David feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as the hospital looms into view. Stevie leaves him at the door and goes to park the car.

With every footstep, David’s nerves become more and more like antique lace: delicate, paper thin, and frayed at the edges. He truly isn’t prepared for any of this; sickness and health was supposed to be broken arms and unfortunate colds and fevered flus. They’ve done those things and none of them had even seemed like a challenge. Taking care of each other had always felt just like breathing: an involuntary, life-giving act. 

A chorus runs through David’s head on a loop: _ Wait for me_.

It takes a few wrong turns, the world’s slowest elevator, and several walks down seemingly interminable hallways, but David eventually finds the ICU. 

Several families are gathered in the room marked _ Lounge_, mostly huddled together, and some other people, alone, dispersed amongst the chairs and couches. It looks like a room designed for people who will be here awhile; leather furniture and low lighting and horribly incorrect pastoral landscapes that some misguided person probably thought would be soothing.

There’s a man in a rumpled suit, tie loose, slouched in a chair close to where David is standing, and a flash of recognition passes over the stranger’s face. “David,” he says, and David jolts. “I’m Eric, I saw your picture on Patrick’s phone...I helped...uh, Julia and Patrick…” The man stands, starts pointing. “You can check in down there; they’ll have you wash up and then they’ll take you to him.”

David follows the directions numbly, nodding in assent and letting his feet lead him where he needs to go. When he arrives at his intended destination, he blindly follows instructions from a variety of different staff members until he’s pointed in the direction of Patrick’s current room.

_ Wait for me, Patrick. Please wait for me. _

Bathed in silvery light and in an enormous hospital bed, Patrick’s eyes are closed, asleep. David can feel when his own breath hitches in his chest at the sight of his husband hooked to all of the tubing and monitors. Patrick’s legs are trapped in what Julia had already texted David were compression sleeves, which are meant to keep any further blood clots at bay while he’s not quite able to move around. The sleeves are blue vinyl and seem to puff out, and they produce a cacophonous mechanical whir that David thinks he might hear later in his sleep.

Which is fine, because David doesn’t plan on sleeping, since he’s stuck in the doorway, rooted to his spot. 

There is a young woman sprawled over an uncomfortable looking chair by Patrick’s bedside, her chin propped in her hand. She’s watching one of the monitors as if it is an enthralling episode of a terribly depressing television program. _ Julia, _David thinks, and he isn’t sure if this is who he pictured, or if he’d even pictured her at all. For a disembodied voice, she is fairly corporeal; it’s reassuring to know she exists in real life and that she happened to exist near Patrick, even for a day. 

Julia looks up and sees him, stuck in the doorway, and rises from the chair she’d been occupying. As she crosses to where David stands, her shuffling step belies her fatigue. She’s smallish in stature, with bright blue eyes, and a tiny silver nose ring glints in the fluorescent lights as she and David slowly move into the hallway. 

“He’s been awake a few times, for a few minutes each time, but I think he’s exhausted so he just tends to pass right out again,” she begins without preamble, as if they’ve already met a thousand times, and they’re familiar now. “They say that it's pretty normal, though, for him to want to sleep. The only...the nurses keep making these faces, about his blood pressure, like it’s too low, so they’re monitoring him pretty closely. They come in and out a lot.”

“He’s not in pain?” David glances over to Patrick, face peaceful in sleep. He doesn’t look sick. Doesn’t look like his brain or his body just staged a revolt. He’s not sure what his own face is doing, but Julia seems to be watching him just as carefully as he’s watching Patrick.

Julia shrugs, rubs nervously at her bottom lip with the edge of her index finger. “I don’t think so, but I know he’ll feel better that you’re here.” She steps aside, then hustles over to grab her shoulder bag off the floor near the bed. “I’ll be out in the lounge with Eric if you need me. You two should have some time.” She starts to leave, but David places a hand lightly on her shoulder to stop her. 

“Can I—you saved his—” His vocal cords and throat are still sore from a day spent crying, but that probably isn’t why the words scratch their way out. “Thank you.” 

“I mean, he did loan me a pretty sweet pen at the conference. I owed him one.” Julia smiles through a fresh gloss of tears, something small and fragile. “You were the only thing he wanted, David, the whole time. I’m so glad you’re here.”

They embrace quickly—the short tentative kind where two strangers who share a common thread are suddenly united—and David releases the breath he’s been holding. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he repeats, wiping at his eyes and sniffling fairly loudly. At some point, he’s going to need more tissues. 

Right now, though, he needs Patrick.

David drags the chair Julia recently vacated closer to Patrick’s bedside, perching on the very edge of the seat so that he can position himself as close to Patrick as possible without physically clambering into his bed. As difficult as the day has been, being this close without being able to gather Patrick into his arms and just hold him makes it that much harder. 

Patrick doesn’t stir, so David leans over to press a soft kiss to Patrick’s brow. He pulls back enough to brush his lips against Patrick’s temple, where he pauses to breathe in the achingly familiar scent of his husband’s skin, allowing himself a moment just to get lost in the warmth and the sense of home.

David reaches for Patrick’s hand where it lays at his hip, slowly sweeps his fingers over each knuckle, careful and reverent. 

From above David’s bent head, Patrick makes an adorably groggy, sleep-mumbly sound and David stills his hand. He looks up to find Patrick’s warm bleary eyes staring at him with what seems to be a trace of disbelief, but soon, a soft smile blooms on his face, his eyes filling with something that looks like relief. Patrick lifts his hand and gently touches David’s face, brushing the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone, skimming slowly along the skin. He says nothing, and David can’t take his eyes off his husband. 

Leaning over, David scrunches his spine and maneuvers so that he can angle himself in a way that he can cup Patrick’s jaw, press close enough to kiss him. This kiss is chaste and Patrick’s lips are dry, but it feels like home. It’s only seconds long but it makes David dizzy with relief; he was afraid he’d never have this again. He had purposely blocked the voice in his head that dared suggest that he might never kiss Patrick, or hold Patrick, or feel Patrick’s warm skin under his fingertips again, and now that he has, it feels like everything he’s been running toward since Julia answered his phone call.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. Stevie drove very slowly.” David says, cupping Patrick’s jaw in his hand. 

Patrick huffs a weak laugh. Okay. He can laugh. “L-l-ate.” Patrick says haltingly and his eyes darken as if that wasn’t what he’d planned to have emerge from his mouth. 

“You know that I like to be fashionably late,” David preens, trying desperately to keep his voice light. Hopefully Patrick doesn’t notice the tremor in it; the compression sleeves are loud and can mask it. “You scared me.”

Patrick makes an apologetic face and sort of jokingly clutches at his chest like he’s trying to say that David’s breaking his heart. 

An unfamiliar voice sounds from somewhere behind David, interrupting their too short conversation, “Hello Patrick, are you ready to play another round of our game?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow and he frowns as a nurse enters the room carrying a handful of laminated cards. The nurse nods to David, “We’re working to reform some of the neural pathways that have been damaged. Think of it as rewiring,” she explains. David glances over at Patrick, who is now staring down at his own hands, picking at the tape over his IV port. “We like to start as soon as possible to aid in recovery,” she says and Patrick makes a quiet scoffing noise under his breath.

“Well, let’s start with one you like, then. No picture required since we have the real deal now.” The nurse points at David, then looks to Patrick to supply the answer when she asks, “Tell me who this is, Patrick.”

Patrick smiles at David, cocking his head the way he always does when he’s about to deliver a zinger or a snarky remark. It’s Patrick; _his_ Patrick; joking and smiling and appearing well for the most part. David can feel the renewed hope bubbling up in his chest until he notices that Patrick’s brow is crumpled and his jaw is tight. 

The nurse says in a patient tone, “Can you tell me who this is?”

Patrick looks up at the nurse, then over at David, and holds his left hand over his heart. 

“You can’t tell me his name?”

Defeated, Patrick shakes his head _no_.


	6. darkest before the dawn

_ Soul-crushing. Devastating. Heart-wrenching. Brutal. _

_ You really fucked up this time, Brewer. _

These are all words that Patrick can _ clearly _ picture in his mind’s eye after he’s unable to identify his own husband’s name, and each one succinctly matches the pain written like graffiti all over…David’s face. 

David. David. David.

It wasn’t as though he’d _ forgotten _ who David was. Patrick had known that he was smiling at the love of his life, the same man who had once carried him up a mountain, and that his husband was gorgeous and funny and kind and finally _ here. _ Patrick had wanted to show David off like his prize, _ look who I managed to make love me_, but instead, his broken brain had managed to thwart even the simplest of messages.

_ David. _

Because as it turns out, the nurse with the pictures is sent to torture Patrick on an hourly basis, and it isn’t getting any easier. In fact, it seems like it’s only getting worse. It’s been excruciating to fumble for simple words, to find himself barely able to repeat a word when he can’t produce the correct one, and he knows that his own face is a mask of tension and fear every time someone enters the room to ask him to recite the names of common household objects. 

And he doesn’t dare look at David, whose expressive face surely displays everything that Patrick is feeling inside: distress, horror, shame, pity. 

In front of him, the nurse holds a drawing of an item that, conceptually, Patrick understands he uses to hold his...drink...his tea. “Guh.”

“Mug,” the nurse says helpfully.

“Mug,” Patrick repeats, with great effort, chanting it to himself, _ mug mug mug_, and still the word promptly disappears, hovering just out of reach when she presents the same picture on the next go-round. Patrick has to tamp down the flash of anger that surfaces as David makes a sympathetic noise each time he struggles to get yet another word up and out of his throat.

They run this same circuit for five more objects; Patrick weakly produces five more sounds that aren’t remotely close to the names of the items and with each incorrect pass, a little more of his righteous indignation escapes his control.

_ It’s a mug. You drink your tea from a mug. You bought matching World’s Greatest Husband mugs for both of you last Christmas and even though David called them fugly, you know that he secretly liked it, and that’s what you always pour his...his...fuck. Coffee. Coffee goes in a mug, too. _

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” David says in a tone that is meant to be... Patrick grits his teeth until the word comes to him... consoling. Patrick is not in the mood to be consoled. In fact, he’d like to knock the plastic pitcher of water right off the tray next to his bed, but playing How Broken Is Patrick with the hospital staff has zapped the energy he’d require to do it.

_ Maybe later_, Patrick thinks, and David must notice him glaring at the water, because he picks up the pitcher, asks “Are you thirsty?” and offers to pour some into the cup with the straw. It makes Patrick feel worse—smaller, pettier—and he gives a weak shake of his head, careful not to turn back toward David when he’s done. 

_But David’s here now, _a more reasonable part of his brain supplies, _and it’s only been a few hours. It’ll get better._ _You have to get better. _Hot tears are prickling behind his eyes and he can feel as his fist is raised from where it’s been coiled on his lap, then slowly brought up to a familiar set of lips. _David will take care of you. Let David take care of you._

“Hey, think of it as rebranding.” David’s voice is falsely bright, but gradually his cadence becomes more even, so Patrick turns his face back toward his husband’s. Patrick shouldn’t be surprised to find that David’s eyes are soft and fond, not at all disappointed. “We’ll hold a grand re-opening of your fancy new neural pathways, ooh, how about a soft launch. I hear those are _ very _ lucrative. I know a very cute, very smart numbers guy, but he’s sort of meh on soft launches. Prefers them semi-firm.” David teases, kneading at the slack muscle of Patrick’s bicep almost playfully.

He wants to banter with David, he wants to feel better the way that he can tell David wants him to, but he can’t find the word he wants for the opposite of soft. _ Long? No. _A few seconds go by, and Patrick stops trying, giving David the smallest flicker of a smile in place of his misplaced words. 

He’s just so fucking tired.

It’s like a punch to the solar plexus, almost, the wave of exhaustion that descends on him. He blinks, long and slow, and allows himself to be lulled as David strokes at his temple with a gentle, practiced touch. He’s almost woozy with sleep, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes and risk that David might not stay with him. He’d like to ask David to stay, but the words are slurred, even in his head. 

With each caress, David whispers another quiet _ I love you _ and each repetition is a balm on Patrick’s raw and exposed nerves. David’s voice, the nearness of it, sounds like a prayer. Even though it’s not something he thinks David does regularly, it’s strangely comforting, the idea of David praying. 

“It’s okay, baby, sleep,” David murmurs, all hushed tones as Patrick’s heavy head follows the warmth of David’s hand, leaning into the casual intimacy of his touch. Patrick briefly loses himself in it and decides that he can rail at the unfairness of his language being taken from him...later, after this much-deserved nap. 

When he wakes, there’s a nurse frowning at his blood pressure monitor and readjusting the cuff around his arm. The room feels cold. David, in an orange..._ no, black _ t-shirt, is shifting in his seat, elbow propped on the back of the chair like he’s trying to stretch. Patrick is groggy and doesn’t know how much time has passed, but as he’s slowly reorienting, he hears familiar voices in the hallway and suddenly, both David and the nurse are gone. 

Patrick closes his eyes again, _ I’m so tired_, until he feels the warmth and the weight of a hand on his chest. “My sweet boy,” he hears his mother’s voice say, but it feels far away, and there’s a rumbled response that sounds like it could come from his father. Someone gives him a firm kiss on the forehead, but it’s too difficult to open his eyes to see who it is. Patrick doesn’t sense David in the room anymore but someone squeezes his hand and he forgets what he was thinking about before. He thinks he should reciprocate, return the grip, but it’s hard to convince his body to do...much of anything right now. He’d like to go back to sleep, to slip back into the fog because it seems...easy. It’s nice to have something easy again, and he wouldn’t mind chasing it.

“He’s so grey.” A voice, his father, says in a half-whisper, and a hand lightly brushes at his forehead. “Is it the lighting?”

“I think he looks perfect,” his mom protests. A cool dry fingertip strokes at his brow. If Patrick could make his brain and his mouth work cooperatively, he’d say, “yeah, Mom, that’s right,” and then they could gang up on his dad, but for now, Patrick settles for making a little sound that he hopes can be understood as agreement. 

“Is he waking up?” His mother asks. She sounds hopeful and it cultivates a brand new ache in his chest, because she’s only going to be disappointed when he can’t greet her. Patrick hates the idea of disappointing his mom. He only ever wants to make her happy so she’ll look at him the way that she always has: beaming with overwhelming maternal pride. “Honey,” she says, voice sort of raising then sliding away, disappearing under the sound of terribly incessant beeping.

His room is full of noise; it’s been a vortex of noise since they brought him here, and he’d like for it to all go away. There’s static now, along with the beeping, and Patrick realizes that on top of all of that are _ new _ voices, low and urgent and strange. Instinctively, he wants to pull away and hide from them. But he can’t. He has nowhere to go, can’t open his eyes, something _ burns_, and he has the sense that he’s being moved: tilting, then tipping, something in his gut turns over. 

If he is truly moving, he has the fleeting thought that David won’t be able to find him. Patrick’s tongue feels loose so he tries to say it, but he thinks what comes out must be garbled, because no one responds.

There’s still some kind of flurry going on around him but inside his head, it’s almost blissfully quiet, serene and dark. It’s the kind of silence that he could curl up in; maybe he can finally sleep again. Somewhere far away, a voice tells him that his mom and dad are here now and...David, David…will be here when he gets back.

Patrick doesn’t know where he’s going except to follow the darkness, but in the moments just before he sleeps, Patrick hopes that when he wakes up, they’ll finally be able to talk.


	7. so I stayed in the darkness with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read notes at the end for possible warnings.

David had been in the lounge talking to Stevie and clutching the Marcy Brewer Special (a Tupperware full of homemade, from scratch baked goods) when he heard the commotion coming from Patrick’s wing of the ICU. He'd found his shaken in-laws standing wide-eyed as Patrick was whisked away for what a nurse would later tell them were tests to find the source of the internal bleeding so that Patrick could once again be stabilized.

The air is heavy in the hallway; David had thought he might enjoy the escape from the steady hiss of the compression devices, but they’re just as loud outside of the room, and they echo from several others. The hissing competes and converges with the steady beep of still more monitors in other rooms and it’s actually harder to be here; it’s even more oppressive. 

He could go back to the lounge and find Alexis, who’d arrived just after the Brewers, or Stevie, or Julia, or even the quiet rumpled man... but then someone would probably hand him coffee, or touch his hand, or offer him sympathy and then he’d just disintegrate into a fine powder, right there on the wear-resistant carpet.

An ulcer is hardly the worst news that David’s received all day (how has it only been a _ day_) but somehow it’s the news he’s taking most personally.

It’s something David should have anticipated; Patrick has been known to collect things, hold them in, allow them to build. David’s seen it happen over and over and it had never occurred to him where those things might be stored, _ how _ they would be stored. How they might become something literally eating away at him. It feels like a manifestation of everything David’s ever feared, everything he thought he’d gotten past because they’ve been so happy. So fantastically happy. 

_ Except. _

Except for those few fiscal quarters two years ago when store had inexplicably lost money and they’d had to lay off two part-time employees; except last year, when they’d been audited by the Canadian Revenue Service and David had been so triggered and rendered so helpless that Patrick had been forced to handle every receipt, every question, every meeting on his own. Except when Marcy had a health scare six months ago and Patrick spent weeks making the long drive between his hometown and Schitt’s Creek, while still tirelessly maintaining their home and the store and David. 

David feels responsible. He_ is _ responsible.

Stevie finds him sitting on the cold bare floor outside Patrick’s door, knees drawn up to his chin. “Do you want me to bring you a chair?” She asks, towering above him.

“No.” He refuses. 

“Do you want me to get someone? Alexis?”

“No.” He refuses again.

“The Brewers?”

“No, I don’t want the Brewers.” David says dully.

Stevie holds up her hands, palms out. “Is there anyone you _ do _ want, David? I’m not going to just leave you alone, because I don’t think that’s a great idea right now.”

He’s fresh out of great ideas at the moment, so that tracks. “Just, someone else, someone who can help him. He needs someone to take better care of him than I do.”

At that, Stevie slides down the wall, dropping to the floor next to him. She leans her face against his knee so that she’s sort of peering oddly up at him from close range. Her features are blurred. “David. No one takes better care of Patrick than you do.”

“He just had a fucking _s__troke,_ Stevie. Now I find out he’s had an ulcer all this time and I—” he pauses, swallows, “and I didn’t see the signs.”

“He wasn’t sick,” Stevie quietly reminds him. “They’ll find the blood. They figured out what caused the bleed and now, they’ll find the blood he needs. This is a setback. That last doctor even called it a minor setback.”

“That doctor isn’t married to him, Stevie, I am. And it doesn’t feel minor.” 

_ Internal bleeding caused by an untreated ulcer, exacerbated by the blood thinners and anticoagulants...possibly requiring transfusion. _

The causes of Patrick’s stroke remain mysterious. While the doctors can point to a blood clot that escaped to lodge itself in Patrick’s frontal lobe, the hows and whys have yet to make themselves known. As of now, there is no exact answer; there may never be. It is something that happened to Patrick that may never be explained, and that is both a blessing and a curse. 

Patrick’s rare blood-type certainly isn’t helping matters and David is trying not to panic, having overheard the staff talking about how their supply of O-negative has dwindled, thanks to a blood drive that inadvertently collected an over-abundance of O-_positive _ instead of the universal donor. An anomaly, someone had said, and the word left David with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.” Stevie covers the still shaking hand David is using to pick at the knee of his black jeans, holds it loosely in her smaller one. “I bet it feels like your whole world is imploding.”

“Fuck.” David snort-cries. “Who taught you how to comfort people? My mother? That was awful.”

“I’m sorry! When did I pretend that I’m good at this? I wanted to bring you Alexis!” Stevie protests, squeezing his hand. David can concede that anyone would probably be better at this than Stevie, but he’s not sure he’s ready for that kind of warmth again. It had been too much to sink into the soft arms of Marcy Brewer after Patrick had been rushed away, and it was almost physically painful to have to tear himself away from her. Stevie might be prickly, but she’s also safe.

David leans forward, resting his head on his hands, and Stevie’s, where they’ve stopped picking at his jeans. He tries to breathe normally. 

“I was so used to being alone and then he made me believe that I wasn’t, that I wouldn’t be... And now,” David realizes that he’s fully numbed, that his chest is frozen, his heart is... it’s not empty, maybe, but it’s muted. It’s like his body is already beginning to pull away so when the inevitable fallout occurs, it won’t be as painful. He’d spent the entire day with adrenaline coursing through his veins and now that’s been replaced by a viscous sludge of self-loathing and the same dark voices that always seem to emerge when things get tough. _ Damaged_. _ Difficult to love_. David heaves a sigh and drops his head back against the wall, sunk in bone-deep exhaustion. “He needs more than me, Stevie. I’m not enough.”

“Okay, first of all, you are way too much, so stop with that nonsense. And Patrick loves all of that... muchness, like to the point that it’s gross and weird. There are people giving all their earthly possessions to cults who have less dedication than Patrick has to you... he’s stupid in love with you. Even when you doubt it.”

The thing is, he doesn’t doubt that Patrick thinks that he loves David, but Patrick’s done things for years that weren’t the right things for him, just because he thought he should, and misplaced obligation feels like love, looks like love, but _ isn’t _love. 

Stevie interrupts his meandering thought process. “You should hear yourself right now.” 

“You mean I said all of that out loud?”

She nods. “Patrick hasn’t misplaced anything except for a few pints of... you know what, that’s not important right now. Sometimes things just _ happen _and no one is to blame. So let’s stop blaming you.”

There’s a part of him that wants to keep arguing but luckily an even larger part is starting to hear what she’s been saying. “No, you’re right.” David sighs. “I know I’m catastrophizing.” He struggles to stand and Stevie helps him to his feet. They get sort of tangled in each other, David’s hand on her arm, her arm around his waist, Stevie’s hair everywhere. “But this _ is _ a catastrophe, though, just so we’re clear.”

“We’re clear.” She gives him a small salute. “You want to come back out to the lounge and sit for a minute before you go back in there?” The _ and compose yourself _is unspoken as Stevie gestures back toward Patrick’s room, where he’s been returned, hooked to new and even more frightening tubes and wires, being pumped full of plasma and fluids while they scramble to find O-negative, or, preferably, AB-negative blood to transfuse into him. 

David knows where he belongs.

Stevie helps David arrange one of the hospital chairs so that it reclines somewhat and together they wedge it next to Patrick’s bed so it mimics his sleeping position. Stevie brushes by David to leave, but he grabs her hand before she can go. “Will you stay with me? Please?” 

She looks at Patrick, then back at David, and appears to make a decision. “Just let me go tell the others where I went, okay? They’re counting on my phone contacts for the text chain.”

“Of course,” David answers, though his attention has already shifted to watching Patrick’s chest slowly rising and falling with each shallow breath. 

Stevie leaves and David lowers his hand as if to touch Patrick’s sleeping forehead, but stops short and instead bends down to press a soft kiss there. 

“There’s an army out there, on a scavenger hunt for your very special blood type, so I hope you’re pleased.” David runs the tip of his finger over the shell of Patrick’s ear, traces lightly down the curve of his jaw. Asleep, Patrick is soft and still, but a mass of contradictions: from the plush curve of his eyelashes where they brush against his cheekbones to the soft swell of his parted lips to the circuitous mass of hard wires and plastic tubing that rises from his garish hospital gown at the jut of his collarbone. Taking a shuddery breath, David continues, trying to push the desperate wave of affection and dread back so that he doesn’t break. Again. “And you owe your mom an apology for that little stunt you pulled,” he half-chides, leaning down to leave one more brush of his lips on Patrick’s too cool skin.

David can feel the fatigue and exhaustion building in every muscle and every fiber of his being, and he knows that this is just the beginning of what will likely be a long string of nights he spends sleeping in this hospital. He lightly tangles his fingers in the strands of Patrick’s hair, the way he’s done every evening for the past five years, and gives it a soft tug. It had started as something that David had accidentally learned about Patrick during sex but somehow, along the way, the gesture had evolved into a kind of signal between them, a ritual. Sometimes it means _ I love you_, or _ I’ll be here when you wake up _ but generally, and now, it means: _ I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. _

David’s heart races as corner of Patrick’s mouth gives an upward twitch, just the edge of a smile, as if he’d heard David’s message. David doesn’t have time to see if he can make it happen again because Stevie returns then, bearing cookies, weak hospital coffee, and trashy magazines. She pulls a chair up to the one David’s reclining in, hand still outstretched, fingers in Patrick’s hair. 

“You want _ People _ or _ US Weekly _ first?” 

Shaking his head, David wordlessly reaches for Stevie’s hand instead, and leans back to settle into his “bed” for the evening. He moves his other hand to Patrick’s wide forearm and grips it tightly. If he stays like this for too long, his own arms are going to ache, but he’s not letting go for anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -discussion of blood (internal bleeding), discussion of blood transfusion, ulcers (complications)
> 
> Whump tag: Stay with me


	8. blood is running deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump tag: bleeding out (off screen)

In the bright light of artificial morning, the hospital lounge is a deeply imperfect place. The carpet is stained, the paint is scuffed, and there’s a broken spring in the cushion of one of the leather sofas. 

Julia isn’t sure how she ended up back here, anxiously waiting with a roomful of familiar strangers, but after a quick shower and a handful of trail mix in the hotel lobby, this is where she’d landed. The night before, Julia and Eric had bid farewell to David not long after Patrick’s parents had arrived. As she’d watched David melt into his mother-in-law’s open arms, Julia had felt as if she was intruding on a private moment and it seemed like the perfect time to step out. David had hugged Julia good-bye, thanking her profusely and promising he’d send her updates, and at the time, it had felt like something final. Patrick had been stabilized and her role in his recovery had ended. 

It had been a welcome reprieve to walk outside in the humid night air, to stretch her legs and breathe in car exhaust and not feel like she was suffocating on canned hospital air anymore. Eric had offered to buy her dinner, but she’d told him that she was too tired, and, sure enough, she’d flopped down onto her mattress fully dressed, asleep within minutes. In the middle of the night, she’d been woken suddenly by a series of incessant beeps that she could have sworn was medical equipment. It was just the room’s alarm clock, set incorrectly, but after the sudden wake up call and the erratic beating of her heart, she’d tossed and turned and finally given up trying to sleep.

Julia should be at the conference she paid to attend, but instead she’s watching a YouTube video about aphasia recovery on her phone while David’s mom and dad are curled up on the opposite sofa, attempting to sleep. Patrick’s parents are huddled over by the ancient relic of a coffee maker, his dad’s arm around his mom’s back, conferring in hushed tones over an old-fashioned wire-bound address book. 

The woman that Julia recognizes as David’s younger sister hands her a cup of lukewarm coffee and sits down on the closest chair, folding her leg under her body. “It’s been a long night,” Alexis says, after re-introducing herself and explaining Patrick’s suddenly deteriorating condition. “We’re locally sourcing one of a kind blood types now, if you know of any.” 

Sitting idly in the ICU waiting area, Julia wishes that she’d taken up a dextrous hobby like knitting, something to keep her hands and mind busier than just texting the local folks on her contact list about their blood types and feeling a little bit like a modern-day vampire. She isn’t overly hopeful about finding anyone, but at least she’s doing _ something._

Julia watches as Patrick’s mom separates from her husband, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and approaches Julia tentatively, picking up a Tupperware from a stack near her chair. 

“I’m Patrick’s mom,” she says, brown eyes as kind as her son’s. “Stevie told us what you did for Patrick... what you did for us, and I just... I wanted to say thank you.” Patrick’s mom holds the container out like an offering. “This isn’t... Clint calls these my Emergency Social Occasion cookies because I keep a stash in case someone new moves into the neighborhood, or someone has a baby—” 

Patrick’s dad comes up behind his wife, rests a hand on her shoulder. “Are you giving away my cookies again, Marcy?” His eyes twinkle with a smile and Julia can see Patrick there, too. He glances down at his wife, who is starting to tear up. “I don’t think all this sugar properly conveys everything we feel about what you did for Patrick, but we hope that it’s a start.” He pushes the cookies closer to Julia, who still hasn’t accepted them. She wonders if it’s because she isn’t sure if she deserves any thanks. 

“I didn’t—”

“Marcy’s butter tarts and snickerdoodles are award winning.” He jokingly tempts, until he seems to recognize her hesitance as something non-butter tart related. “Would you like to come sit over here with us? Marcy and I were just going over some names on our list to see if there’s any family locally that could help out and donate blood, though we Brewers are pretty spread out these days.”

Julia starts to shake her head and Marcy puts a hand on her elbow. “I brought a photo album too, mostly for... I thought Patrick would like to have something from home here, but if you’d like to look at it, I’m sure it would be okay with him.”

Resignedly, understanding that they need to share this with _ someone,_ Julia follows Patrick’s parents over to the corner they’ve made their impromptu headquarters, sits in the chair next to Marcy, and listens as Patrick’s mom quietly narrates Patrick’s life. She pages through Christmases and birthdays of a chubby cheeked curly haired baby boy all the way through puberty and proms and college graduation, and finally, a wedding. Patrick and David stand in a garden of cherry blossoms; bow ties untied and hanging loose around their necks, arms around each other. David is beaming so widely it looks like he could fit the world in his smile and Patrick isn’t even looking at the camera. He’s only looking at David, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he’s about to say something sly to his new husband. 

“They look so happy,” Julia marvels. 

Patrick’s mom traces her finger lightly over the photograph of her son, taps briefly in the space over his head. “They are.” Marcy glances back at a picture on the opposite page, where Patrick is strumming a guitar, his eyes closed, mouth open. “You know, Patrick’s been singing his whole life, but I don’t think that I ever truly heard his voice until he met David.”

Julia nods, not certain what to do with that information, when David and Stevie stagger into the room looking haggard. Stevie is wrapped in three thin blankets and David’s dark hair stands at a ninety degree angle. Neither of them look as if they’ve slept. Marcy excuses herself and Julia watches as the Brewers approach David, their heads bent together. She can hear as David protests loudly - someone must have suggested that he could go eat or take a shower or sleep in a bed that wasn’t also a chair - and then Julia’s cell phone dings that she has a new message. 

_ I’m O-negative _ the text reads, and the contact listed says: _ Eric. _

**Got any to spare**, she types with shaking fingers.

Julia watches as the three _ typing _dots populate the grey bubble on her phone screen and then disappear.

_ I’m in the lobby. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Rhetorical Questions and Suit Man.


	9. the dogs days are over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less whump, more feelings.

Sometimes it’s nice just to enjoy the silence.

After the successful blood transfusion and several more days of monitoring and medication adjustments, Patrick has finally been moved out of the Intensive Care Unit and into a regular hospital room. 

He’s grateful to have been released from the compression sleeves and their monotonous din since he’s begun taking short walks around his room, sometimes even traversing the whole unit if he’s feeling particularly adventurous. Which he’s surprised to find is usually the case. He’s rediscovering what he can and can’t do, and it’s frightening, but it’s also liberating to know he can still put one foot in front of the other, even while David helps to hold him up. Patrick’s even more grateful that David even seems lighter now, less burdened. Like he believes that Patrick might actually begin to heal. 

It’s starting to feel as if David is acting on a television show sometimes, Patrick’s very own beloved and heartwarming comedy that plays on a constant loop in the background of his days here in the hospital. Currently, David is adorably befuddled as he digs through the bag he threw together before leaving Schitt’s Creek. He seems to be under the mistaken impression that the bag is somehow deeper than it actually is or that it's magical because he’s emptied it at least three times now, apparently in hopes he’ll find something new on the next pass. Patrick chalks it up to the dazed hurry that David must have left in, since he’d also inexplicably presented Patrick with half of their medicine cabinet (Patrick was not sure what to do with an open box of Band-Aids, aftershave, and a brand new bottle of lube, although he had _ some _ideas) and his guitar, which is now propped in the corner.

“Why would I bring three t-shirts out of the hamper, one of your henleys, and six pairs of underwear?” David paws through the remaining meager contents, stacking the offending items on the small tray at Patrick’s bedside. “And not a single pair of pants.”

Patrick isn’t sure what elaborate pantomime he could perform to ask _ not even the skirted ones? _So he abstains and tries to school his face into something that looks sympathetic.

“What am I supposed to do without pants?” David asks plaintively.

The question is probably rhetorical, but Patrick suggestively waggles his eyebrows, punctuating the sentiment with a semi-lewd hand gesture. He figures when David rolls his eyes or loudly complains about the boorishness, he can just claim brain incapacitation.

But David doesn’t even flinch. “But I’ve been wearing the same clothes for _ days_,” David complains and Patrick shrugs, waving an explanatory hand over his own hospital gown. “Okay, sure, but no one is giving _ me _ regular sponge baths.” 

Patrick responds with another shrug and a look meant to convey _ hey, I’ll take it where I can get it _and in return, David gives him one of those dazzling half smiles where he bites his lip and pretends like he’s trying to fight it. Patrick’s heart practically trips over itself as David blazes at him incandescently. Fuck, he’s missed that smile.

He doesn’t really remember much about the last several days, other than waking up from what felt like a brutally long nap to find a distressed David slumped in a chair by his side. He has a vague memory of his mom talking to him about a photo album she’d brought; he definitely thinks his dad called him _ slugger _ at some point. There’d been other voices and some very strange dreams but nothing stood out except the urge to stay cocooned in sleep. The way David tells it, it’s been the longest several days of everyone’s lives, but things finally appear to be stabilizing and progressing. Physically, anyway. 

There’s still a lot of recovery ahead and the hospital staff keep popping in to remind him about it. Constantly. Nurses with laminated cards show up to challenge his patience at well-timed intervals and now they’re making him put the days of the week in order and testing him on the months of the year. It feels as if he’s expected to build a house, one brick at a time, with one hand tied behind his back. He hates that every time he gives an incorrect answer (_No, Patrick, Wednesday comes before Thursday) _it starts to feel like that house is never going to get built, let alone stand. 

“The speech-language therapist should be here in a few minutes,” David helpfully reads from the schedule that the social worker left for him, “and then the occupational therapist, physio, and mmmkay, the bladder and bowel care specialist,” he lists, causing Patrick to scowl as vociferously as he can muster, even though David pretends not to notice it. “I will be conspicuously absent during that consultation, thank you very much.” David says, wrinkling his nose in horror.

“What a chicken.” Patrick laughs, and he almost starts to cover his mouth with his hand when he hears the sentence emerge, because he hadn’t expected to say anything at all. Not knowing when or where words will start to leak out feels desperately unsafe, like a spigot that he won’t be able to turn on or off at will. 

There are tears glistening in David’s eyes and he makes a sound not unlike a joyful sob, practically diving at Patrick and tackling him against the pillows. It’s hard to get a good hugging angle in this bed, but David does his best to gather most of Patrick’s torso and head into his arms so that Patrick’s face is sort of mashed helplessly against his collarbone. “I’m sorry, it’s just so nice to hear your voice,” David says breathlessly, squeezing Patrick tightly and palming the back of his head. Patrick doesn’t protest though, because it’s nice here; it’s warm and David smells like antiseptic hospital soap and sweat and unwashed skin but he also smells remarkably like _ David_. In the dark of David’s throat, Patrick is surrounded by the familiar muskiness and the sweet drag of David’s stubble, and he’s disappointed when David finally releases him and returns to his previous seat, delving deeper into his bottomless bag on a quest for pants he definitely did not pack.

There’s a baseball game happening soundlessly on the television over David’s head and if Patrick didn’t know better, it would feel like a Sunday afternoon at home, with David arranging his knits while Patrick watches the Jays pitching staff struggle to keep their earned run average down. He tries not to think about the impending arrival of the speech-language therapist because he doesn’t want to know how much more work lies ahead of him, though he’s well aware that cooperating with his rehab team is the only way he’ll get anywhere close to himself again.

“You know, you still have a few minutes until the speech therapist gets here.” David says, and out of the corner of his eye, Patrick notices that David is gesturing with a small glass jar. Without warning, David’s hand pushes into Patrick’s eyeline.

Patrick gives David a side-eye that he hopes conveys, _ “And?” _

“And,” _ ah, sweet victory_, “I have a steady hand.” David does a modified jazz-hand finger wiggle as if to demonstrate, and it really doesn’t do much to instill a lot of confidence.

“W-What?” Patrick produces. It’s slower than usual, but the word comes. He can feel as his chest gradually starts to unclench.

David tilts the lid so that Patrick can see it; a familiar eucalyptus leaf insignia reflects brightly under the fluorescent lights. “It’s under-eye serum. And, as you may remember, its application requires a steady hand.”

When he opens his mouth, Patrick feels like he’s tempting fate, but the words appear and hang in the air: “Don’t brag.” 

“And I didn’t want to have to tell you, but your under-eye situation is an absolute nightmare,” David smiles again, the half-smile, but his eyes are soft. “C’mere, scoot over,” David pushes on Patrick’s shoulder, helping him maneuver so they’re more face to face and his own knees are bumping up against the bedrail. 

David carefully unscrews the lid, his face a mask of concentration and care. Patrick loves watching David when he’s focused, when something matters to him, the way he bites his lip and squints - Patrick wants to touch him, definitely wants to kiss him. He hasn't felt David’s mouth against his in far too long, so he reaches out to pull David’s face to his. “Mmm mmm,” David smirks, shaking his head and scooting back, pulling himself just out of reach. “Skincare first.”

Groaning, Patrick wants to say _ you’re not playing fair_, but it gets stuck, so instead he stays still and allows David to reposition him a second time, using his cool fingertips to gently tilt Patrick’s face up toward the light. 

David was right though; his hands are extremely steady. Patrick inhales sharply as David’s palm gently sweeps along the ridge of his cheekbone, David’s long fingers extending back toward his ear, his thumb at rest under Patrick’s left eye. Patrick swallows hard as David skims the area with a featherlight touch, gently dabbing the cool serum onto his skin. 

David’s eyes haven’t left his and Patrick can feel his mouth going dry as the air begins to fill with the pungent scent of eucalyptus. His skin tingles and not just where he’s had the serum applied. He can feel it prickling in every nerve, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His body feels alive. 

It feels like being back in the Apothecary, like the first days of dating David. It feels like hope, and assurance, and fresh perfect love, and David’s hands blazing new trails over his body. It feels like opening up and finally being seen. It feels like connection. 

Patrick watches open-mouthed as David pulls back to appraise his own work, his lips curling with satisfaction, and Patrick realizes that he’s moved his hand so that it’s now gripping David’s thigh. It’s warm and solid beneath his fingers and he doesn’t dare tear his eyes off of David, for fear he might disappear. 

“Hey,” David says softly, breaking Patrick out of his own thoughts. “Where’d you go?” He asks simply, eyes searching Patrick’s, voice low and sweet.

_ Nowhere, _ Patrick’s brain supplies erroneously. _ No...Everywhere, _Patrick wants to answer, but can’t. He wants to tell David that he loves him; the words are on the tip of his tongue. He settles for leaning forward and tentatively pressing his lips against David’s. 

His tongue remembers what it’s like to want to explore David’s mouth, so it does, and Patrick tastes David for the first time in over a week, for the first time with his new brain, and it’s miraculous how the kiss is both stunningly familiar and dramatically new. 

Patrick wants his kiss to be a promise, one that he can both make and keep. David doesn’t pull away or tease him, instead brushing his fingers over the side of Patrick’s neck, bringing him closer; Patrick makes an approving noise deep in his throat as David’s hand travels from his cheekbone down to his jaw, flutters down to where his hospital gown gapes open at his collarbone. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” David says into his mouth, voice panting and needy and broken all at once, and Patrick opens his eyes to see that there are tears blooming in the corners of David’s eyes. 

Another wave of affection surges through Patrick that’s as strong and as electric as a bolt of lightning. His heart rate monitor starts to accelerate, both from his need and his level of frustration. _ David, _ he wants to say, but can’t. _ David. _Instead, Patrick pulls back to brush his own thumb against David’s skin, to chase the tears that haven’t yet fallen. Patrick catches one on his thumb, then slowly kisses it off, tasting the salt and the weight of it on his tongue. He gives David a sorrowful look, then leans back in to softly kiss his wet cheek. 

Not breaking eye contact, David answers by tangling his fingers at the back of Patrick’s hair and giving it a gentle tug. _ I love you_, Patrick hears, and he chants it, over and over and over again, bargaining and cajoling and threatening his own brain..._just this once, let me have it just this once. Let me say this, please. _

Opening his mouth, Patrick presses his tongue firmly against the back of his teeth, and as he attempts to speak, another voice calls into the room: “Good afternoon, Patrick! Guess what time it is?” and the spell is broken.

David’s hands drop and his eyes pitch upward, his mouth twisting as if he’s attempting to recover. While David’s still looking away, a blush slowly developing on his skin, Patrick picks David’s hand up off of the blanket, laying a kiss on the palm and resting David’s now open hand over his own heart. 

David glances down at the movement, eyes still rimmed red but full of unfettered fondness, and Patrick flashes him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, his heartbeat thundering under his husband’s splayed and graceful fingers. 

“I know,” David says, sniffling slightly and swiping at his eyes with his free hand, the therapist still looming in the doorway. “I know. I love you, too.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the sweet comments and the time investment you've made in this story! I cherish every comment and I hope you continue to leave them. I have two more chapters that will post in the next two days and we'll be finished!


	10. it makes such an almighty sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump tag: recovery

“Let’s practice our kissy faces.” David overhears with surprise as he’s approaching his husband’s hospital room. David enters to find Patrick studiously puckering and relaxing his sweet pink lips on command, while the therapist observes and then marks something down in Patrick’s chart. 

Okay, yes, he remembers these. He’d witnessed both this and a tongue exercise yesterday after he and Patrick had been interrupted and he’d needed to take a cold shower afterwards. Because, after too much time without regularly kissing Patrick, even just the sight of Patrick’s pointy little tongue was...incendiary, really.

It’s incredible to think that Patrick is days away from being released, although details remain ambiguous about how and where he’ll rehabilitate. Schitt’s Creek isn’t exactly known for neurological advancements, and if there’s been one time in the past ten years that David has wished he still had all his family’s money, it’s now. Patrick, and his health, are the only things that matter.

David notices the strain on Patrick’s face (well, first the sweet pucker, but then the strain) that indicates the session has not gone well. His ears are tinged pink, a slight flush has crept up his chest and neck, and the muscles in his jaw are tight. The doctors have been very encouraging about his progress, about how Patrick has been using all of his other expressive skills to communicate what he needs, and how that’s forging pathways that will help him to redevelop his language. It’s just the _ later _ that seems to be weighing on him, as David watches his face fall when he can’t repeat a phrase without prompting. 

“More tongue exercises later?” David flirts from the doorway, and Patrick looks up, startled—and also a little annoyed. David very much gets the sense that Patrick doesn’t want him to witness this part, the effort it takes; that he’d like to keep any struggles he may have private. 

The therapist chuckles. “You two are so cute,” she says, making another notation and starting to pack up her equipment. “I wish my husband looked at me the way David looks at you, Patrick.”

Patrick blushes again, this time from the compliment, and David watches as he curls his toes against the linoleum. Only Patrick and his tree trunk legs could manage to make grey hospital-grade compression socks look sexy. Or, maybe, it’s that David is excruciatingly hard up for his husband. It’s an either/or, really. 

David crosses the distance and presses his hand between Patrick’s shoulder blades, bending to kiss the top of his head. “Do you have any homework, or…” David trails off, since the therapist is still standing there, watching, like she’s waiting for some kind of demonstration or a tip. 

“Actually,” she starts, and her eyes shift. “Is that a guitar?”

Clearly it’s a guitar, and Patrick’s eyebrows give a slight twitch of irritation, as if he wants to share the same sentiment. Marital telepathy at its best, apparently. “I should probably just take that thing back to the hotel.”

“No,” she says, looking to Patrick for permission to pick it up. He nods, smoothing his hands over his thighs nervously. Suddenly it occurs to David that the reason Patrick hasn’t touched his guitar isn’t because he hasn’t been struck by the urge to strum; it’s because he doesn’t think he can. “Music crosses brain hemispheres and it actually helps increase neuroplasticity. Do you play?”

Patrick nods, “Y-y-yeah.” He’s clasping his hands and rubbing doggedly at the skin between his thumb and his index finger. David has to fight the instinct to swoop in and save Patrick, protect him from this eager therapist and the fear and panic he can see written in every line of Patrick’s body as he reluctantly accepts the guitar.

David tries not to stare as Patrick reverently smooths his hand over the body of the guitar, hefting its weight, cradling it to his body, and finally settling with his hand loosely around the neck. He looks shyly up at David, then down at the strings as if they’re suddenly completely foreign to him. His face portrays none of the easy confidence that David has become so accustomed to, and there’s a moment where David considers causing some sort of hideously dramatic distraction so that Patrick doesn’t have to find out if he’s lost this too.

Before the stroke, Patrick played guitar and sang every weekend. He’d somehow managed to join an alt-folk band in Elmdale called the Mother Folkers and, while they sometimes played at small bars and bingo nights, they mostly took turns playing folk and pop covers in each other’s garages. David didn’t love the nights when the Mother Folkers invaded his personally curated space - most of them brought terrible snacks and had abysmal taste in clothing - but afterward Patrick always seem to glow as if he’d been lit from within, the music loosening something in him that nothing else could. 

From his seat, Patrick adjusts his left hand on the frets, strumming softly with his right. It’s nothing David recognizes, and it’s a tiny bit clumsy, but neither too sharp nor too flat, and it’s music that’s only coming from Patrick. The doctors have been impressed with Patrick’s motor skills, muscle tone, and at how quickly he’s regained his physical strength, so David isn’t necessarily surprised. He thinks Patrick might be, judging by the sudden relaxation of his tense shoulders and the way he can’t seem to take his eyes off his own hands, like they’re somehow operating under their own accord, and he isn’t the one in control.

The vice-grip on David's heart eases as Patrick’s fingers nimbly pick wholly recognizable patterns on the strings. With each new chord Patrick produces, David finds himself sending another message of thanksgiving into the universe. 

“Do you think you could sing something?” The therapist asks, and Patrick’s fingers freeze. “Like, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or Happy Birthday? No pressure. You can always do Wonderwall later.” She smiles broadly at him, pleased with her joke. David rolls his eyes.

A ghost of a smile passes over Patrick, and he starts to pick the opening chords of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star until they morph into something else, something familiar. “You come to me, wild and wired,” Patrick looks up at David, eyes wide with surprise as his voice barely wobbles, words flowing easily and melodically. David tries to smile as the tears start to form in his eyes, and he nods approvingly as Patrick sings, “you come to me, give me everything I need,” voice strong and clear. 

“Well, you have a beautiful voice,” the therapist says, sounding slightly surprised, “And I think we just found another road to recovery, Patrick, so I wouldn’t hide that guitar in the corner anymore, if I were you.”

Patrick laughs wetly, swiping quickly at his eyes. “I won’t,” he says, in a partially sing-song tone, like he can’t quite stop the flow of music through his body.

“You might feel like you’re living in the Pirates of Penzance with all the singing we’re about to do, but this is good news.” The therapist pats Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s not a magic fix, by any means, and we’ve got work to do, but this is progress, Patrick. Really good progress.” She smiles down at him again, then gives David’s arm a squeeze as she leaves. 

She might not think it’s magic, but David does, and hope begins to wind its delicate tendrils around David’s already fragile heart. 

David smiles to himself as he kisses Patrick and assists with his slow shuffle back into bed. Patrick doesn’t try to say anything else, but David can see the wheels turning behind Patrick’s warm eyes, all the ways he’s trying to leverage what he’s just learned. It’s the same intense look he gets after negotiating a lower rate on a contract or when he does something in bed that causes David’s vision to white-out; he’s trying to figure out exactly how to make it happen again. 

But it’s clearly taxing, as Patrick pliantly allows David to gently lower him onto the bed, straighten his gown, brush his hair back from his forehead. Patrick is generally tired after his therapies, and today is no exception, as the intensity on his face slowly turns soft, then dissipates altogether. 

Patrick’s feet are still on the floor, and he doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to lift them, so David lightly taps his knee, questioning, “Do you need help?”

Coming slowly out of his haze, Patrick shakes his head _ no _ and cooperatively bends his knees, swinging his own legs up onto the bed, where David does some swift rearranging of the bedclothes and pulls the covers up to effectively tuck him in. 

David hates this part of the night, where he knows that he’s going to leave and go back an empty bed at the hotel, and Patrick will be here alone, but he’s also noticed how much he misses Patrick when he’s still in the room and the ache is exactly the same. 

As David bends to kiss his husband goodnight, Patrick starts to hum softly under his breath. The tune is familiar and a bit poppy, not one of Patrick’s typical choices. “Is that Mariah?”

Patrick nods, taking a series of several long blinks, as if he’s actively fighting sleep. “Later,” he slurs.

“Yes, later.” David whispers as he noses at Patrick’s sparse stubble, then kisses Patrick’s eyelid, directly beneath his scar. “You can tell me all about it later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Distractivate for sending me all sorts of helpful information about playing guitar so that I could write two vague sentences that may still not be entirely musically accurate. If it is nonsense, the blame belongs entirely on me.


	11. you can't carry it with you if you want to survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end...recovery and embrace are the whump tags

“Ta-da!” Jocelyn cheers, unveiling the brand new sign that hangs in the high school gymnasium, amongst the smells of sweat socks and jockstraps and general teenage malaise. 

SCHITT’S CREEK FIRST ANNUAL BLOOD DRIVE AND STROKE-A-THON is emblazoned on the enormous fabric banner strung from the rafters, and David’s face looks like it’s going to crack under the pressure of suppressing his reaction.

“Wow, Jocelyn,” Patrick starts slowly, searching for words, knowing Jocelyn has only the best of intentions. “That is...wow.”

David squeezes his hand so tightly that Patrick is worried one of the bones in his fingers might snap. “Mmm, this is very…” David tapers off and Patrick wonders if he and David are experiencing the world's first documented case of shared aphasia, except that he can clearly identify what he _ doesn’t _ want either of them to say. 

“Sweet. Well-intentioned. I’m honored.” That last one’s a lie, because he’s not sure he’s ready to engage in town wide masturbation to promote awareness about stroke prevention and detection. “No one will actually be touching anyone else, right?” Patrick asks, scratching his head. “Or themselves?”

“No, why would you…” Jocelyn looks at Patrick quizzically, then up at the sign, and back at the two red-faced men standing stiffly beneath it. “Oh goodness, I didn’t...It’s a talent show to raise money and get the word out...oh no.”

“Well, I like it.” David says chipperly, and Patrick knows he’s lying. He can tell by the way David’s biting his lip and his cheek dimple sort of ripples, not to mention how David never likes anything that he's not expressly responsible for creating. “It’s very...it paints a picture...very vividly.” He nods, blinking rapidly as if that will somehow cleanse his mind of the mental images. “Thank you so much for this, Jocelyn, really. We-we’re _ touched_.” 

Patrick snorts, then covers his mouth and nose in horror. David jabs him with a sharp elbow to the ribcage. “I just hope we don’t _rub _anyone the wrong way, you know, bringing this to the forefront.” 

“Oh, no, we’re happy to help.” Jocelyn says obliviously. “Everyone was so worried about you, Patrick. And the fact that you’re doing so well is such a boon to us all, so the town council decided they wanted to do something special for you.”

David is still nodding like a bobble-head, his hands now resting on his chin. “This is very special. Yes. Such a release.”

“It’s just, we can’t thank you enough for working it out for us, Jocelyn. I mean, the whole event.” Patrick stuffs both of his hands in his pockets then realizes what that might imply and quickly removes them, careful not to meet David’s eyes as he awkwardly jockeys around.

After Jocelyn leaves, Patrick looks at David and they both burst into hysterical laughter. David is clutching his sides and Patrick has tears running down his cheeks and the entire situation is so absurd that it could only happen to them. 

“This is all your fault, you know.” David says through a hiccupy laugh. 

“I'm sorry I had a stroke, David, I’ll try not to do it again.” 

David’s face quickly turns serious. “No. Don’t ever do that again. Ever.” Patrick still wakes up to find David just _ watching _ him, even a year later, his eyes watery and his mouth turned down. He usually just presses himself to David then, holds him; they don’t have to talk about it. Patrick thinks he knows what his illness did to David, knows that there aren’t words. “No, not that. But no, don’t.”

“Okay.” Patrick agrees and slips his hand into David’s. “So tell me why this is my fault, please.”

“So you _ didn’t _have the bakery write Happy One Year Stroke-iversary on a giant cookie? That wasn’t you?”

“No, uh, it was definitely me.” Patrick has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling again. It’s been that way a lot, recently. That he has to fight back the happiness, the relief that he’s coming back to himself. Even though there are still times when he has to struggle to find a word, or when he says the wrong one, he’s grateful he has the chance to look for it at all. “David, I’m getting better. I wanted to celebrate.”

“You didn’t think I’d get you a cookie?” He sounds hurt.

“No, I know you would have. But I wanted to make sure that I was the one that acknowledged it, to make it...okay for other people to, so I guess this is my fault in a way.” He lifts David’s hand to his mouth, kisses the knuckle of his ring finger. _ Sickness and __health_, he thinks, and he stops so that he can square up with David, rests his hands on his waist. “Someday, I’d like to talk about it with you. When you’re ready.”

David runs a hand up Patrick’s side, rests it on his shoulder. “I’m...getting ready. I promise. I don’t think I’m there yet. Soon, maybe. But you, you should talk about it. Whenever you want.”

“Thank you.” Patrick kisses that spot on David’s neck, the one that belongs to him. “You’re planning some other kind of surprise, aren’t you?”

David’s face and shoulders fall. “How did you know?”

“Well, first of all, my parents still aren’t good actors. And the last time I texted with Julia, she said ‘see you soon.'”

“I need to start hiring actual actors to play your family and friends, because no one can fucking handle keeping a secret anymore.”

“Anymore? No one we know has ever successfully kept a secret.”

“That’s true.” David agrees and crosses his arms. “So you know they’re all going to be here tonight, then? And that Julia’s bringing Eric and it sounds like they might be...getting serious?”

“Now that was the biggest shock of all, and yes, I already knew.”

“Dammit.”

“I’ll act surprised, I promise.”

“But_ you’re _ not that good of an actor.”

Patrick pretends to pout until David kisses it away and then reaches down to loop his arm through Patrick’s. When he first got home, they’d needed to walk like this fairly often because Patrick wasn’t quite steady yet - so often dizzy from blood thinners - but they’re still doing it because they like the intimacy of it, the proximity. They can bear some of each other’s weight. Patrick’s started calling some of their newer rituals _ stroke gifts_, because without the stroke, he isn’t sure he’d have them. 

David and Patrick stroll through the gym arm in arm, admiring the decorations and joking about the myriad ways they could privately celebrate a stroke-a-thon, until it’s time for guests to begin arriving. 

Patrick’s parents arrive first, because they are perpetually early for every event, always. “Well, it isn’t a party unless your Mom is crying,” his dad jokes as his mother dabs at her eyes, Patrick still in her arms. 

“They’re happy tears, Clint, leave me be,” she sniffles. “And what is the name of this celebration again?” She points up at the sign, causing David and Patrick to exchange knowing looks.“It’s a good thing all the cousins won’t be here tonight. We wouldn’t hear the end of it.” 

David makes a face, “Mmm, there may be some cousins here.” 

“David, what did you do?” Patrick asks. He’s seen that face. He’s had to come out of the closet because of that face.

“In my defense, it was for a good cause.” David holds his hands in the air as he protests. “I may have invited everyone in your mother’s address book.”

“My third grade teacher?” Patrick asks as a woman who looks strikingly like his third grade teacher enters the gym looking lost. 

“We asked everyone we knew for their blood. Inviting them for some cheese and crackers seemed like the right thing to do.”

Patrick leans against David, presses a kiss on his cheek. “It is. Thank you.”

After an evening spent reacquainting himself with the more social half of his mother’s address book and being aggressively hugged by nearly every citizen of Schitt’s Creek and the surrounding Elms, Patrick is tired, and he can’t locate his husband. 

He finally finds David sitting along the back wall of the gym at a table with Julia, who Patrick has barely seen all night. She and Eric had trickled in with one of the cousin caravans and Patrick hadn’t been able to swim upstream through the sea of well-wishers to carry on much of a conversation with any of them all night.

Patrick settles himself onto David’s open lap and plants a kiss on the top of his forehead, grazing some newly sprouted gray hairs with his lips. “I missed you,” David says into Patrick’s neck, and it’s a moment before they both remember they’re not in their own little world. “The Mother Folkers were actually...great. That new arrangement of _ Dream Lover _was beautiful,” David remarks as he smiles into another kiss.

Patrick blushes. He’d had that in his head since the hospital, and it had taken months to perfect. “The rest of the show had its moments. I had no idea that Ray was so into One Direction,” he deflects. “Or that he played the marimba. I lived with the guy for a year and he still manages to surprise me.”

“I think Ray’s more of a Harry fan, but hey, whatever works.” David slides a hand down the line of Patrick’s spine, leaving his warm hand on the small of his back while they talk. “Ray is Patrick’s old roommate,” he says to Julia and Eric, who are nursing their Juice Boxes, the specialty drinks that Jocelyn had decided were on theme for the blood drive.

“I like to think of him as my former landlord. You’re my old roommate.” Patrick ducks instinctively, but David only rolls his eyes. “Ray is great, though. He’d give you the shirt off his back.”

“Or the car off his lot.” David reminds him, voice a little low. It took ages for Patrick to piece together what happened while he was in the hospital, and there are still things he’s unclear on about who was responsible for what; about how everyone banded together and supported both him and David without question. Their freezer overflowed with casseroles and stews for months from the dinner train Ronnie organized; Patrick can’t walk down the street without Darlene’s cousin offering to give him a ride somewhere. And the two people sitting at this table with David; he knew in the hospital what they’d done for him, and he hasn’t forgotten.

Giving David one last peck, Patrick hops off his lap to drag his own chair over from a nearby table and pulls it closer to Julia and Eric. “Listen, I just wanted to say—”

Julia smiles, with the same kindness in her eyes that she had a year ago, when she’d noticed that something was wrong and had actually done something about it. Not everyone can say that a stranger saved their life, but Patrick thinks that he can. “Hey,” she holds up her hand, “I brought you a present.”

“You didn’t need—” 

She rummages in her large purse, brings out a navy blue gift bag stuffed with light blue tissue paper and hands it to Patrick. Next to her, Eric smiles. Inside, is an enormous glass jar full of green gummy bears. “I figured that you could use those, since I haven’t been around to supply them to you during boring lectures lately.”

“Ha, thanks.” 

“I must warn you against gummy tummy if you eat too many at once, however. I won’t be here to save you from that.”

Patrick toys with the F.A.S.T. placard that is part of every table’s centerpiece. Julia really had saved his life, and all because she’d noticed that his speech was off. He didn’t have any other noticeable symptoms, really, and she’d paid enough attention that he was able to both survive and thrive. He knows now how lucky that is, and that not everyone has that. “I just—I just wanted to say one thing, though. It’s been bothering me since that day.”

Julia looks at him with concern. “What’s that?”

“When we were playing that game, you asked me when my wedding anniversary was, and I couldn’t tell you. And thanks to me, you probably lost out on a really fantastic door prize. So I’m sorry for that.” Patrick takes a deep breath and releases it, then glances over to David, who looks away quickly, but Patrick knows that David is still listening. “Our wedding anniversary is July 2nd. We were married at the botanical garden because David loves the cherry blossoms and I love David, and I wanted him to have whatever he wanted.” The fact that Patrick is able to say any of it, at all, is because of Julia, so it feels right that she hears it. Looking around the table, Julia’s eyes are welling with tears, David is sniffling, and Eric is staring down into his Juice Box. Patrick feels strangely buoyant. Lighter, somehow, that he could finally say what he’d wanted to, almost a year ago today.

“Thank you for giving me my life back. I know can’t repay you, I really can’t even begin to show you what it means to me, but I just...I’m really glad you picked the seat that you did at that conference.”

“God, me too.” Julia throws her arms around his neck, squeezes, and gives him a small kiss on the cheek. “But I’m putting caution tape around you next year, so people know what to expect when they sit next to you. No more surprises.” 

David’s hand appears on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. We’re putting a moratorium on conferences, symposiums, and solo travel of any kind. Anywhere you go, I’m going, like a new puppy.”

“Great.” Patrick clasps his hand over David’s, where it’s still busily smoothing at his shoulder. “Because there’s a Maximizing Excel for Small Businesses seminar next week in Thornbridge and next month, I’ve signed up for Capital Budgeting in Toronto. Oh, and there’s a fascinating one on pivot tables that I don’t think we should miss—” Patrick is interrupted as a hand with four gold rings clamps lightly over his mouth. He sticks his tongue out to lick it, and the hand drops as David says_ ew _under his breath. “You’re gonna love Don’t Cell Yourself Short, it’s all about spreadsheet analytics.”

From the look on his face as Patrick stands to challenge him directly, it’s clear that David probably won’t love the seminar. But David pulls him closer, their foreheads touching, and whispers, “Listen, I know I said anywhere…”

This time, Patrick is the one smiling into their kiss.

* * *

It’s late when David drives them home from the party, and he disappears into the bathroom to begin his nightly regime of skincare the second they walk into the house.

Patrick tidies up in the kitchen, puttering around packing lunches since he has a doctor’s appointment in Elmdale at noon and he doesn’t know when David will have a chance to get away from the store. “Do you want to take the rest of that lemon butter risotto I made for lunch tomorrow? I don’t think it will be good much longer.” Patrick shouts in the general vicinity of the bathroom. 

David pops his head out of the door; his face still smeared with cleanser. “Oh my god, that zucchini was amazing. Yes.”

Patrick smiles. That amazing zucchini is from his garden; the garden that he began cultivating at the recommendation of his occupational therapist; another stroke gift. He packs the rest of David’s lunch; the risotto, an apple, and a chocolate chip cookie that his mom had foisted on them and that David can’t seem to resist. He writes a little note on the napkin - _ Eat the cookie first. I love you - _and shoves the lunch bag in the refrigerator next to his.

David meets him in the bedroom smelling like toner and face lotion and they collapse into bed, exhausted from the events of the day. David didn’t say much on the ride home, hasn’t said much most of the evening, actually. There had been a lot of people, making a lot of inappropriate jokes at the signage, and while David had been laughing at first, Patrick started to notice that his smile wasn’t always meeting his eyes.

Turning out the lights, they tuck themselves into bed the way they usually do; David stretches out, Patrick curls around him, a leg tangled between David’s, an arm over his midsection, hand rubbing gently at his side. 

Patrick props his chin on David’s chest. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Mmm.” 

It sounds like agreement, so Patrick runs a slow fingertip down the bare skin of David’s arm, stopping at his wrist and encircling it with his hand. “Do you think that maybe tonight was hard for you?” Patrick hears what he just said. “I did not mean that as another stroke-a-thon joke, I swear.”

David doesn’t respond.

“I know you’re not ready to talk about what happened. I get that. I want you to have your space. You deserve that and I don’t want to take it from you, at all.” 

“Okay.” David says very slowly.

“I just feel like maybe it’s because you think _ I’m _ not ready.” Patrick shifts so that he’s lying on his back, but still pressed along the seam of David’s body. “And I just wanted you to know that I am. Whenever you are.” 

“Patrick.” David’s voice is like a plea. 

“Is it okay if I tell you what I remember about that day?” Patrick asks carefully, as if he’s easing his way through barbed-wire.

“Of course.”

“It’s mostly a blur, really. But what stands out to me is that all I could think about was you. I mean, I thought a lot of things, but in those moments, when they wanted to me to make a decision, even though there were other people in the room, I was totally and utterly alone. I was the only person I could count on, and I didn’t...I didn’t want to just count on me anymore. I wanted you.” 

Wordlessly, David reaches over and takes his hand, squeezes. 

“I remember that I kept...I would say your name. It was the only thing I said, I think, but it only came out of my mouth every hundredth time I thought it, maybe every thousandth. Because I just kept saying it in my head, over and over, I don’t know, maybe because I thought you might hear it?” In the darkness, David sniffles. “Did you hear it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” The pillow rustles as David turns to face him, moonlight washing over his profile. “I wish I could have, though.”

“Yeah. Me too.” They’re both quiet as Patrick listens to David breathe. “I was right that I could count on you, because you came and took care of me. And then I came home, and you took care of me. And then I got well, and you’re still taking care of me.”

David rolls over so that he’s practically covering Patrick like a blanket. “But I was so scared. I’m still scared.”

Wrestling his arms out from underneath David’s weight, Patrick tightens them around his back, and they shift so that David is contained more on Patrick’s chest, his cheek against Patrick’s heart. “I know, David.”

“What was I going to do if you didn’t get that shot on time? Or if Eric didn’t have the right blood? Or if you weren’t you anymore?” Patrick can hear the strain in David’s voice as his emotions tighten like a razor-wire, sharp and taut. 

“But those things...they worked out. I’m still here.”

“You are. Yes. I guess I just don’t trust that it’s over yet. The other day, when you said cereal instead of silverware, my heart dropped into my feet.” Patrick can admit that he’s frightened and panicky in those moments too, when the words come out wrong, or when he still needs to hunt for the right one. “Or when you had that headache last week, I almost drove you back to the hospital right then.”

“Hey, I know it’s scary, but now, now we know what to look for, and I don’t...I don’t think it’s going to happen again. I mean, I can’t promise that, but I’m doing everything I can to make that true, David.” Patrick’s drags his fingers through David’s thick hair, scratches his blunt nails against his scalp, drawing a pleased sound from David’s lips. “Let me take care of _you_ now. I’m ready to take care of you.” _Please trust me. _

“You do take care of me.” David’s voice is barely audible as he laces his fingers through Patrick’s. “And I will try to trust that we’ll keep getting to take care of each other. You’ll pack my lunches and I’ll tell you how I feel and nobody will have to be alone with this. I don’t ever want you to feel alone like that again.”

“I don’t want that for you either.”

“Okay,” David says, like he’s willing it to be true. Patrick knows that David’s still thinking about what they could have lost, but maybe eventually, he’ll see what they’ve gained. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Patrick repeats as he tugs on the soft strands of David’s hair, sealing their pact without words, because he’s beginning to learn that maybe not everything has to be said aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone that would like one, here's the [Spot A Stroke F.A.S.T](https://www.heart.org/idc/groups/heart-public/@wcm/@fdr/documents/downloadable/ucm_467905.pdf) placard from the Stroke-A-Thon.
> 
> Special thanks to 
> 
> Olive2Read who beta'd this whole monster but was especially patient with me at the end when I had guilt naps about how terrible I was making the story (and for the html code)
> 
> Also to this-is-not-nothing for helping me figure out the ending 
> 
> And Emu and missgeevious and other Rosebuddies for the conference titles

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Olive2Read for her quick and incisive beta work. 
> 
> And shout out to Rhetorical Questions for the title suggestion—she's a little bit omniscient. 
> 
> And thanks to olivebranchesandredwine and this-is-not-nothing for their "post your whump" encouragement.
> 
> And always, Rosebudd, what would I do without you. Probably attend to my real life, but who needs that.


End file.
